How the Grinch Stole My Heart

by Annabelle Costa

  “I’m not going to debate this with you,” the man barks at me. “If you can’t make me what I want, I’ll go somewhere else.”

  Right around now, I want to snap back at him, “Good luck with that, dumbass!” But I don’t. If there’s one thing I learned in the service industry, it’s to take the crap with a smile like it’s a joy to have it shoveled on me. I keep the smile plastered on my face as I say, “I’m so sorry to hear that, sir.”

  And I don’t even give him the finger when he leaves. I’ve really matured in the last decade.

  A few customers have been watching our little interaction, including a man who is standing at the empty register at the front. The manager’s daughter, Ashlee, is supposed to be manning the register and taking phone orders, but she’s inexplicably disappeared—again. If it were possible to fire that girl, I would definitely do it, especially since when she returns after her frequent disappearances, she frequently stinks of marijuana. In any case, since Ashlee is MIA and the waitresses are all busy, I rush over to help the man at the register. He looks up when I arrive and…

  Oh my.

  Gosh, he’s nice-looking. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of his startling blue-green eyes. He’s wearing glasses with simple black frames, but even his lenses can’t hide them—it’s a little hard to look away. Short dirty blond hair, slight mussed from the hat he’d been wearing. A day’s stubble on his chin. And he’s got the absolute sexiest one-inch white scar above his left eyebrow.

  An adorable smile spreads across his face as he lays his eyes on me. Wow, that smile. I don’t know if I’ve ever had anyone look at me quite that way—not even Greg.

  And then we’re just staring at each other like a couple of idiots. I’m staring at his lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss him. I’m wondering what it would be like to run my hand through his dark blond hair. Or better yet, down his bare chest.

  I can’t remember falling quite so instantly in lust with a guy… ever. My heart won’t stop thudding in my chest.

  Oh my God, is it getting hot in here?

  “I, uh…,” he starts to say, but then loses his train of thought. It seems impossible, but he looks like he’s just as into me as I am into him.

  I swallow hard. I have to remember I’m at work. Can’t start ripping my clothes off now. Be professional, Noelle. “Can… can I help you?”

  “Oh.” He blinks a few times, as if remembering where he is. His smile is adorably embarrassed. “I… uh, I got a to-go order.”

  “Right.”

  He lifts his left hand to rub his forehead, touching that sexy scar of his. I wonder how he got that scar—he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would be in a fistfight, but the thought of him slugging a guy in the back alley of a bar sends another tingle through me. I notice one other detail: no ring. He’s not married.

  “By the way,” he says, “that customer over there was nuts. You can’t order a sunny side up egg with only egg whites. The sun is the yolk.”

  “Thank you.” He’s hot and he’s sane. It’s a good combination. One that’s unfortunately very rare in single men my age.

  “Plus,” he adds, “egg white omelets are awful. The best part is the yolk.”

  Hot and sane and with good taste in eggs. “I agree. Especially when it’s all runny.”

  “Yeah!” He nods eagerly. I love the way his face lights up. “You should have just brought that guy a sunny side up egg. Maybe that’s why he was such an ass—lack of egg yolks.”

  “The customer is always right, you know?”

  “I’m impressed at your patience.”

  “Well, I’m very nice.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” The smile fades slightly from his lips. “I’m not nice, so…”

  “No?” I don’t believe it. A guy who smiles like that has got to be nice. I can tell from his face. “I’m pretty sure you’re nice.”

  “No, I’m really not,” he sighs. His aqua eyes bore into me. Even with the geeky glasses, he’s sexy enough that he could be a player—the stubble and the scar put him over the edge. But I don’t get a player kind of vibe from him. Everything about him cries out Mr. Nice Guy. “I promise you—I’m not nice. I used to be, but…”

  I shrug. “Well, everyone can’t be nice, can they? As long as you’re not a complete asshole.”

  “And what if I am?”

  I look right into those intense blue-green eyes. “Prove it.”

  He lifts an eyebrow and grins crookedly. “Prove it?”

  “Yeah. What makes you think you’re such an asshole?” When he doesn’t answer, I prompt him, “Do you torture puppies?” I think of Katie Williamson sobbing in the lobby after her encounter with that asshole in 5B. “Make schoolgirls cry?”

  “Uh…” The tips of his ears turn pink. “I’ve made a few schoolgirls cry.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true.”

  I doubt it. He’s good-looking, but I suspect he doesn’t have it in him to be mean. “And what else?”

  “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “sometimes when I finish the milk from the milk carton, I put it back in the fridge empty.”

  I clutch my hand to my chest. “Oh my. I may have to ask you leave, Mister.”

  “Well…”

  “Is that really the best you’ve got?” I grin at him as I roll my eyes. “Sorry, but I’m still not convinced.”

  “Okay, how about this: when I was a kid, I told my sister there was a boogeyman in her closet, and she had to sleep in my parents’ bed for two months.”

  “Kids will be kids.”

  “All right, all right…” He’s really thinking about it now, a sexy crease forming between his eyebrows. “Um…”

  “May I suggest you can’t think of anything because you’re actually a nice guy?”

  He shakes his head soberly. “No. Trust me.”

  It’s funny—usually, it’s the opposite. The city is full of asshole guys who are masquerading as nice guys. Even if he is an asshole, I’d have to appreciate his refreshing honesty. Although I don’t believe it.

  “You gotta give me something then.” I spread my hands apart. “Like, demand that I give you a bacon cheeseburger without any bacon or cheese. Or… I don’t know… park your car in the handicapped space outside.”

  He blinks a few times at that last one. His mouth falls open, and the flush in his ears enters his cheeks. Uh oh.

  “You didn’t, did you?” I say. “I mean, park in the handicapped spot?”

  If he did… well, I’d definitely have to give the guy his Asshole Card. Even if you’re just running in to get takeout, it’s not okay to park in those spots. Not that I would never date a guy who did that, but I’d definitely have to educate him a bit.

  “No,” the guy mumbles. “I… uh, I walked over.”

  My heart sinks. He’s broken his eye contact and is looking anywhere but at me. I don’t know what I said wrong, but it was obviously something. I clear my throat, and look at the to-go orders behind me. There are three of them. “So what name is your order under?”

  “Jeremy.”

  “Jeremy,” I repeat. I identify the name scribbled on the middle bag. I lift it up—it’s light. Just food for him, I assume.

  “Bacon cheeseburger?” I ask. “With fries on the side?”

  He nods and reaches for the container with his left hand, still avoiding my eyes. What the hell did I do wrong? “Thanks.”

  I slide his check across the counter. “Cash or credit?”

  “Cash.”

  Then he hesitates.

  Seriously, he better not be one of those deadbeats who “discovers” at the register that he’s unable to pay. That is the worst. If that’s the case, he’s most definitely an asshole. He’d be even worse than the customer I had yesterday who not only decided not to tip, but took it upon himself to deduct two dollars from his tab because of “poor service.”

  But then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, whi
ch I can immediately see has plenty of green bills in it. He places the wallet down on the counter and starts fumbling with it. That’s when I notice he’s doing the whole thing one-handed. I hadn’t realized it before because his coat is so bulky, but now that I’m looking, I can see his right arm is pressed against his chest, the hand squeezed into a tight fist. And now I see exactly why he got quiet when I made that stupid stupid comment about the handicapped parking spot.

  I wish I could say my reaction to his visible disability is something classy like… I don’t know… not staring. Or better yet, not letting my jaw hang open.

  I’d like to say that but I can’t.

  Jeremy looks up and notices the way I’m staring. He’s beet-red now. When he finally gets out a bill from his wallet, he practically shoves it at me. “Here. Keep the change.”

  He’s tipped me over a hundred percent on the bill. “I hope you enjoy your burger.”

  He avoids my eyes. “Yeah, thanks,” he mutters.

  And then he reaches for a metal crutch that’s leaning against the counter. I had vaguely noticed the crutch, but it hadn’t even occurred to me it was his. After he’s got his forearm laced through the metal rings, he reaches out for the plastic bag containing his order. His blue-green eyes meet mine briefly, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

  He turns away from me and limps in the direction of the door. He leans heavily on the crutch, leading with his left foot, then pulling his right along slowly and carefully. At one point, his right foot sticks on a crack in our floor, and he struggles for a moment before getting it loose.

  As he puts his good hand on the handle of the door, I realize something:

  I still find this man incredibly sexy.

  I haven’t looked at a guy and felt this way in so long. I don’t know what his deal is, but I don’t care. I know it’s cheesy, but I believe in love at first sight. When I first laid eyes on Greg, I knew he was the man I was going to marry. And… well, that didn’t work out so great in the end, but the point is, I was right. I did marry Greg.

  I don’t want to blow it with this guy. I really think he could be…

  Something. I don’t know what yet, but something.

  I can’t let him leave. Once he does, he’ll never come back. So before he can get out the door, I quickly lift my hand to wave at him, offer him my most come-hither smile, and say, “Come back again if you like the burger, okay?”

  He hesitates, gripping the handle of his crutch in his left hand. He turns to look at me, but there’s no affection in his eyes. He nods briefly. It’s barely even a nod. It’s a quarter-nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Damn. I’ll probably never see him again.

  Chapter 7: Jeremy

  Flirting.

  I miss it.

  The girl working the counter at Moonlight Diner was flirting with me. Actually, she was more of a woman than a girl. Yeah, definitely a woman. She had these sexy lines around her mouth that made me think she was probably a couple of years older than I am. Everything about her was sexy, actually. Her dark hair pulled into a messy bun behind her head. Her suggestive smile. The way she didn’t lose her cool when that asshole customer was laying into her.

  I was very out of practice. Women don’t flirt with me anymore. For starters, there’s the fact that I rarely leave my apartment, which means I don’t interact with human beings much in general. On top of that, I know the crutch and my bad arm are not what most women would think of as attractive. The truth is, just thinking about it makes me lose all my confidence. So I don’t even bother flirting.

  But there was something about this woman—the one whose nametag pinned to her chest said Noelle. Noelle. She’s the first thing that’s reminded me of Christmas that I haven’t hated. When our eyes met, it was like a truck hit me. I mean that in the best possible way. I looked at her, and all I could think to myself was, I want to kiss this woman.

  I want this woman.

  Really, really bad.

  I haven’t felt that way in a long time. Yeah, I still look at porn and jerk off and all that shit because it’s a biological need. But it’s really unsatisfying. On the rare occasion I meet a real life woman around my age, I generally feel nothing. I had thought maybe the bleed in my brain killed my libido too, on top of everything else.

  Noelle proved that isn’t true. I’m still as horny as I ever was. I just hadn’t met the right woman. When I looked at her and she smiled back at me in a way that wasn’t at all condescending, I thought maybe I’d finally met the right woman. Maybe I could ask her out and it would actually go somewhere instead of a stammered apology when I try to ask for another date, followed by a cold shower.

  Then she made that joke about the handicapped spot outside. And that’s when I realized:

  She didn’t know.

  If I could have hid it from her, God help me, I would have. But I knew it was only a matter of time. Minutes… or more like seconds. Sure enough, as soon as I tried to pay, I gave myself away. When she finally noticed my right arm clenched to my chest, she started gawking at me.

  Just like fucking everyone else.

  I’m an idiot. I didn’t realize she hadn’t noticed. I thought she was the one woman who saw my disability and liked me anyway. That was a real punch in the gut.

  I miss women. I miss being close to women. I miss kissing. Holy shit, I really miss kissing.

  And there’s sex. I haven’t had sex in over four years. It’s starting to feel permanent.

  Something’s got to change. Otherwise, I’m going to be single for the rest of my life.

  Chapter 8: Jeremy

  Taylor used to like my hair long. Well, not long, but shaggy. She really liked running her fingers through it. I joked to her once that she wished she were married to a rock star, and she said she didn’t know any rock stars who wore nerdy glasses like me. Then we ended up having sex, which was how most of our arguments used to end.

  This morning when I show up at the barber for my quarterly haircut, I point to number three on the wall and plop myself down in the chair. These days, I want my hair really short. I’m not dedicating any maintenance time to my hair when nobody but me looks at my stupid mug anyway. And I only have to look at myself a couple of times a day when I’m in the bathroom.

  December is a shitty time to get a haircut though. I pull on my hat for the two-block walk back to my apartment building so I don’t feel the bitingly cold air against my newly shorn skull. At least it hasn’t snowed yet. If there’s been a recent snow, I don’t dare go outside. Nothing good can happen if I try to walk on ice.

  Joe, our doorman, is reading a magazine when I get to the door of our building. I can see him through the glass, but he doesn’t move a muscle to help me. He doesn’t even glance up. Am I going to have to pound on the door to get his attention?

  I hate having to ask for help. Hate. It. Opening a door—I should be able to handle that. Most doors I can manage fine, but our building did some renovations last year, and the new door they put in weighs twenty tons. Trying to grip it with my left hand and pull it open while maintaining my balance is not easy. I’ve learned that the hard way.

  The last thing any guy wants is to have to ask for help with anything, much less something so basic as opening a door. But I’ve learned to swallow my pride. I have to if I want to get into my own damn building.

  “Let me get that for you, Jeremy!”

  I turn my head and see Fanny, my upstairs neighbor, coming up behind me with a big paper bag. Actually, it’s more of a sack. She’s gripping it in both hands, even though it’s half as big as she is.

  Fanny is old enough to be my mother—possibly old enough to be my grandmother. I was raised to hold doors open for people like Fanny and offer to hold her bag (or sack—whatever) for her. But that’s not going to happen. Instead, Fanny holds onto her own sack and pulls that heavy door open for me. I’m the opposite of a gentleman.

  “Thanks,” I mutter under my breath.

  “If you want to
thank me,” Fanny says as she pats her puff of white hair, “you’ll share some of these bagels with me.”

  I eye the sack. “You expecting company?”

  “No, I like to stock up.” She smiles at me with teeth that are in very good shape. I hope my teeth look that good when I’m her age, but they probably won’t be, considering I substitute my teeth for my right hand in a lot of situations. “Ben’s has the best bagels. I put them in the freezer and they’re good for ages!”

  No. I don’t want a bagel. I don’t want to make conversation right now. But Fanny’s nice to me—one of the only people in this building who talks to me. One of the few people in the world who talks to me. So I don’t want to hurt her feelings. I’m trying to think of an excuse to get out of joining Fanny for bagels when my foot snags on something on the floor of the lobby and…

  I’m down.

  I don’t just fall—it’s one of those spectacular falls that makes Fanny scream, and even Joe puts down his goddamn magazine. In rehab, they taught me to fall. Falling is inevitable, but the important thing is when I see it coming, to do it in a way so I minimize injury. With only two fully functional limbs, I can’t afford to take out anything else.

  So no, this wasn’t my best fall. Nobody would record this particular fall and put it on YouTube as a demonstration of the safest way to fall. But aside from the humiliation of falling on my ass, I’m okay. Everything seems intact. No broken bones.

  Joe stands over me, his face white as a sheet. “Are you all right, Mr. Grieder?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  He holds out his hand to help me back to my feet, and I take it. If I were on my own, I’d have to crawl over to a couch to use it as leverage. Don’t need to do that in front of an audience.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and search the ground for what tripped me. I immediately see an extension cord snaking across the ground, leading to the most fucking elaborate Christmas tree I’ve ever seen in my whole life. The tree’s covered from top to bottom with ornaments and dizzying blinking lights. The tree does everything but belt out Christmas carols. “This cord…”